As Morning Shews The Day
by Kay Em2
Summary: Some scenes from Charles' childhood maybe


_Disclaimer: The characters, alas, are not mine. They belong to Fox. But once I got the idea, I just had to write it down.  The title is from Milton's 'Paradise Regained', and follows on from the line 'Childhood shews the man...'.  Spelling is in English English (not American English), 'cos that's where I am and that's how I write. Constructive feedback and comments welcome! Thanks_

**As Morning Shews The Day**

**By Kay Em**

**Boston, Massachusetts, 1922**

Charles Emerson Winchester III glanced up from his arithmetic book to sneak a glance at his new Governess. Mrs Ross appeared to be reading the book on the desk in front of her, and wasn't taking any notice of Charles at all, so he stopped pretending to look at his own book and gazed out of the window instead, wishing he could be out there playing with Timmy instead of being stuck in here on such a beautiful day. It wasn't as though he was learning anything. He'd learned all his times tables months ago with Nanny, back before his fourth birthday, but when he'd told Mrs Ross he already knew them she'd just told him not to be impertinent and to open his book at the two-times table. How stupid did she think he was?

Through the open window he could hear Timmy laughing, and he sighed, leaned his elbow on the desk and propped his chin on a hand. Timmy wasn't big on talking yet, but he made a great audience. Whenever Charles wound up the clockwork toys for him, or spun the top, or helped him with the building bricks, his little brother would clap his hands and say "Good, Charlie!" or would run to give him a hug. Nobody but Timmy called him Charlie - or hugged him for that matter, except for Nanny. All the adults called him 'Charles' - or 'Master Charles'. Unless he'd been really naughty, in which case they'd trot out his entire name and send him to his father for a hiding. He'd probably be in line for one now, he thought, if Mrs Ross caught him daydreaming, so he turned the page of the maths book and pretended to look at it again. He couldn't hear Timmy any more anyway. Nanny had probably taken him off for his afternoon nap. Lucky Timmy, thought Charles, his own eyes closing drowsily as they re-read '3x3=9' for what seemed like the hundredth time.

He was jerked awake when the book slammed shut in front of him, and he looked up to see Mrs Ross towering over him. "What is nine times three, Charles Emerson Winchester?" she demanded.

"T...twenty-seven," he replied.

"And twelve twos?"

"That's easy, twenty-four."

"Easy is it? Let's try six threes."

"Eighteen. And six sixes are thirty-six," he added, "Which is the same as two eighteens."

Mrs Ross stared at him, and he thought for a moment that he'd got himself into trouble again, but then he saw the corners of her mouth twitch. "My, you're a rare one," she said, "You really do know your tables, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am," said Charles, confused. He'd told her so, hadn't he? Why hadn't she believed him?

"Your father told me you'd done a few sums with your Nanny," she said, "But I thought he meant you'd done a little simple addition. I can see I'll have to rethink my entire curriculum for you."

"What's 'curricl... curricol...'" 

"Curriculum?"

"Yes." It was a word he hadn't heard before, and he loved learning new ones.

"Well, it's - er - it's a programme of work..."

"I know what a programme is," he said, "We get them at the concerts at Symphony Hall. They tell us who's playing the instruments, and what piece they're going to play."

Mrs Ross had obviously given up on trying to hide her smile. Charles thought she looked much nicer for it. "Well, a programme of work - a curriculum - sets out what you're going to learn and when you'll be learning it," she said. She tilted her head to one side and folded her arms as she looked down at him. "Do you by any chance know what 'precocious' means, Charles?"

"Not really," he said, "But I've heard other people saying it. I tried to look it up in my father's dictionary, but I don't know how to spell it."

"You will," she said, surprising him by ruffling his hair, "And before too much longer, I suspect. For now, we'll..."

But Charles never found out what she intended him to do for the rest of the lesson. The shouts and yells from the garden sent them both to the window, and when Charles heard his brother's name being screamed, he ran.

*          *            *            *            *

"Master Charles, no!"

As Charles hurled himself out through the open French windows and across the terrace in the direction of the swimming pool, one of the gardeners raced up the steps toward him and lifted him clean off the ground.

"Put me down!" yelled Charles, kicking futilely, "Let me go, Giles, I want to find my brother! You're supposed to do what I tell you! Let me go!" Over the gardener's shoulder, he could see a half-dozen adults huddled by the edge of the pool, none of them dressed for swimming, and he knew something was terribly wrong even before he heard the siren.

"That'll be the ambulance," said Giles, putting him down but keeping a firm hold on his shoulders. "You mustn't go down there, master Charles, there's... there's enough people getting in the way as it is."

"But where's Timmy?" Now he was on the ground, Charles couldn't see the pool, and he strained to look, "What's happened to him? Why can't I see him?" 

"Charles." His father walked slowly up the terrace steps, with a look on his face that frightened Charles because he'd never seen any adult looking that upset before, let alone a Winchester. "Thank you, Giles," said Charles senior, picking Charles up and carrying him into the house with a "Come on out of the way, son."

"But why?" said Charles, "Giles said I'd be in the way too. What's happened, dad? Where's Timmy?"

He was placed on the sofa in the drawing-room and his father crouched in front of him and held his hands. "Timmy ran away from Nanny and fell in the pool," he said, "And you know he can't swim yet. So he's... he's going to have a ride in the ambulance."

"They'll take him to hospital?" said Charles, getting a nod, "And make him better?"

There was no nod in reply to his second question. Instead, his father stood up and kissed his forehead. "We're going to go with him," he said, "Your mother and me. So Mrs Ross will look after you. Mind you do as you're told."

He rushed out, but not before Charles had seen that he was crying. Now Charles was really scared.

When Mrs Ross came in to find him, a few moments later, he was crying too.

*          *            *            *            *

His parents came back from the hospital, but his brother didn't.

Everyone spoke in whispers, the curtains were drawn all over the house even in the middle of the day, and strangers came to the door with flowers and cards, and more whispered conversations. Charles didn't really understand any of it, except that Timmy wasn't coming back. Neither was Nanny, but that had been different. Nanny had packed her cases and kissed Charles goodbye, and driven off in a taxi. They'd gone to Church to say goodbye to Timmy, but Timmy couldn't hear them, he was...

Charles bit his lip and hugged Bear more tightly as he lay in bed unable to sleep. Bear had been his a long time ago, but he'd given him to Timmy. Now Bear had reappeared in his room, and that more than anything told him that Timmy was never coming back. He'd seen the little box in Church, and watched his uncle carry it into the family vault, but he shied away from the thought of Timmy being in it, and wouldn't go with his mother to take fresh flowers each day. She'd taken him once, but it made him shiver and ache, the way he felt whenever he had to walk past his brother's room. He'd refused to go again, and she didn't press him.

His mother was playing that music again, he could hear the sound drifting up from the gramophone in the music room. Yesterday morning, he'd copied out the words on the record label in his best writing, while mother was upstairs, and had asked Mrs Ross what they meant.

"It's German," she'd told him, "Because it was written by this man, see, Gustav Mahler? This long word here means 'Songs for Dead Children'."

Mother certainly seemed to think about Timmy a lot, thought Charles, turning over in bed and staring into the darkness. He wondered if, tonight, she might think about him a little bit, and come and kiss him goodnight the way she used to.

He was still wondering when tiredness overtook him and he finally fell asleep.

*          *            *            *            *

**1924**

Mrs Ross often took him to the Museums in Boston, and Charles had thought nothing of it when she'd loaded him into her car in the morning. But when they arrived home later than usual and his father came down the front steps to meet them, he wondered what he'd done wrong. Quickly, he thought back over the past couple of days. Might his frog-spawn have hatched and sent tadpoles all over his bathroom? he wondered. He was pretty sure the lid was on tight, but then he'd thought that when he'd captured the field-mouse too, and look what a fuss that had created when it escaped.

Oh well. Whatever it was, he might as well get it over with.

"Hello," said his father, as Charles climbed out of the car, "Have you had a good day?"

He was smiling, Charles realised. Odd. "Yes, thank you," he said, cautiously, "We went to the Old State House. Mrs Ross said you gave them some money for repairs when they had a fire there a few years ago."

"Mrs Ross, as usual, is absolutely correct. Now, let me tell you what's been happening here while you were out."

Now for it, thought Charles.

"You've got a new baby sister," said his father, beaming. "Would you like to come and see her?"

Charles stared. Nobody had asked him if he wanted a sister! Why couldn't he have another brother? Girls were no use! On the other hand, his father seemed to be quite pleased, and he didn't want to spoil that by complaining so... "Yes, please," he said. 

His father took his hand, the way he usually only did when they were in a crowd like the ones at Symphony Hall, and led him up the stairs and along the corridor to His Parents' Rooms. Charles thought of them in capitals because they were such important rooms he usually wasn't allowed into them - but this obviously wasn't a usual sort of a day. Perhaps having a sister had its advantages after all.

His mother was sitting up in bed, resting against a heap of pillows and cradling a tiny bundle. 

"Charles, darling," she smiled, "This is Honoria. Come and say hello."

"She's very... small," he said, solomnly, gazing at the little pink face peeking through the blanket's lace edging, "And wrinkly."

"She's beautiful, and perfect," said his father, laughing, as he sat on the edge of the bed and extended his forefinger for the baby to grasp. "And she'll be big enough to play with you in no time."

"Couldn't we just send her back and buy a bigger one?" said Charles, "Then she could play with me now."

His parents were laughing again, though he couldn't think why - it seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion. They could swap her for a boy while they were about it. 

"We're not sending her anywhere, darling, she's here to stay," said his mother.

Charles sighed. "I suppose she'll be wanting Bear then," he said.

*          *            *            *            *

**1926**

Charles lay on his stomach on the floor of the Nursery and passed Honoria another piece of the wooden jigsaw. It was boring, helping her do something this easy, he thought, but on the other hand it was better than some of the boring stuff they did at school - and it made him feel grown up, being trusted to look after her, even if it was only for ten minutes while Nanny sorted out Honoria's tea.

"There," he said, turning the last piece around in her hands so that it was the right way up, and pointing at the gap in the middle of the puzzle, "Finished."

Honoria clapped her hands, gleefully. "Good, Char-wie!" she chuckled.

"Don't say that!" Charles jumped to his feet. "Don't call me Charlie. Don't. _Ever_." 

Honoria's little face crumpled as she dissolved into tears, upset by the sharpness of his tone. Instantly contrite, Charles sat down on the floor next to her and pulled her onto his knee. "I'm sorry. You weren't to know. Please don't cry." He found his hanky and wiped her eyes. "I just don't want anyone to ever call me that again," he said, quietly, as she calmed down and looked up at him. "My name is Charles. Can you say that, Honoria? Charles."

She frowned with concentration. "Charrrz," she managed.

"Good," he said, rewarding her with a kiss, "Will you remember?"

His sister scrambled to her feet and put her arms around his neck. "Charrz," she said.

Charles smiled and returned the hug. "You'll need to learn to say 'Winchester' too," he said, "But all in good time, I suppose."

*          *            *            *            *

**1928**

"There you are Charles," said Honoria, trotting in to the cellar with Bear under her arm, and startling her brother. 

He swung round from the makeshift bench he had put behind the wine racks, and spread his arms in a vain attempt to stop her seeing, but he knew it was too late.

"W...w...what are you d...doing?"

"I'm trying to find somewhere to be by myself!" he retorted, "How did you find me in here?"

She shrugged. "I knew you couldn't b...be outside," she said, "It's p...pouring down. I l...looked everywhere – and then I heard you w...whistling."

"I was whistling?"

"Yes, how could you n...not know?"

Charles shrugged. He'd had the _1812 Overture_ running through his head all morning, he'd probably been whistling that. He'd have to be more careful what he whistled in future though! 

Honoria moved closer. "W...what _are_ you doing?" she said again, as she looked at the things on his bench.

"I'm putting this frog back together," he said.

Honoria pulled a face. "That's icky."  

She didn't scream or run away though, as Charles thought she would, and he had to admit to himself that she deserved credit for that. "It's not icky. It's interesting," he said. "Look, there's its little heart."

"D...doesn't look like a heart t...to me."

"Hearts don't look like those drawings on cards," he said, using tweezers to put the organ back in the chest cavity where it belonged.

"How do you know?"

"Read it," he said, "In one of dad's books." It was called 'Grays Anatomy' and it was hidden under his bed, because he really shouldn't have it. His father kept the library ladder under lock and key, so Charles had had to climb up three shelves to reach it on the top one, and he still had the bruises from where he'd fallen off. It had been worth the risk though. He knew what all these bits and pieces were called now, though admittedly the inside of a frog looked different to the human diagrams in the book. "You'd better not tell him," he warned Honoria, as an afterthought.

"About the f...frog?" she asked, "Or about the b...book?"

"Both," he said, holding the tiny amphibian's stomach up to the light. "Do you know, I'll bet if I had a microscope, I could find out what he'd eaten for his lunch."

"You know w...what he had for his lunch, silly," said Honoria, rolling her eyes, "Frogs eat flies, d...don't they?"

Charles grinned. "True enough," he said, "But I think I'll ask for a microscope for Christmas anyway!"

*          *            *            *            *

**1930**

"It's no use, I'm never going to be good enough!"  Charles slammed his fists down onto the piano keys in frustration. 

"Darling, you play very well," said his mother, soothingly, glancing up from her embroidery.

"No I don't. Not like you."

"Charles, I studied for a very long time to play to concert standard. You're only half-way through your exams, you can't expect..."

"It's not that." He turned around to look across the room at her, "You know it's not. I can practice getting the notes right, mother, but I can't..." He thought back to the concert she'd played the previous week as he thought about what his playing lacked. "I can't make it _mean_ anything, the way you do," he said, "The only way I'll ever make anyone cry over _my_ playing is by hitting too many of the wrong notes."

She put her sewing down and came over to sit next to him on the piano stool. "Technically, you're a good, reliable player," she said, "Probably good enough to teach one day, if you keep going." She put an arm across his shoulders, and he turned his head away so that she couldn't see how touched he was by the rare display of affection. "Knowing  you, though, 'good enough' isn't good enough, is it?"

He shook his head. "No. Whatever I do when I grow up, I'll want to be the best."

"Well - what are you good at now?" she asked, "Shooting? Polo? You're good at maths, what about becoming an accountant? Your father would love that!"

"I can put things back together," said Charles, thinking out loud, "I like doing that."

"You mean, like a mechanic?" his mother asked, recoiling. "Good heavens, I don't think..."

"No, no, not cars," said Charles, "People! They can't be that different to frogs!"

"Oh dear, you're not still dissecting things are you? I thought Doctor Nichols had spoken to you about that."

"He said dissecting things was normal," said Charles, loftily, "But not everybody can put them back together again." He shrugged. "And not everybody's got a microscope of their own to look at things under, like I have." He smiled. "_Doctor_ Charles Emerson Winchester the Third," he said, testing the sound of it, "What do you think, mother?"

She patted his arm and stood up. "I think you'd make a fine doctor," she said.

"The best," said Charles, "I'll _have_ to be the best. After all - I'm a Winchester."

**_THE END_**


End file.
